The Drifting

Who called a crisis a spade?

-which unearths to the root canals

down which one man you took for god

paddled his own canoe. Not you.

You were assaulted from above:

that God, making up for good times.

So I loved you from underneath;

you wouldn't look down

when you floated to shores

of no light you washed up upon,

looking for my shoulder, rib, one

hand, joints rolling caresses.

I was drowning, using the dead

man's float like a call for help

down that stream of gold that wound

round you: half a jacket for me

but a ring for you. Everyman a Houdini

who escapes that water with his wife.